Still Life
by silent-voices
Summary: A picture, a photograph. A moment frozen in time. [various short stories]
1. Snow

He said: "I got you some mittens," and his face, shining with frost, was soft and warm and it seemed strange that he could radiate such heat on a day like this. They were covered in snow, his black hair giving the impression of going prematurely white.

She said: "Oh." She much rather had the stiffness of her fingers, trailing her frozen hands over his cheeks, marvelling at how she could feel him melt her down even without touching her.

He said: "But I left them up in the tower, so you'll have to do with this," and he smiled and took her hands and led them past layers of cloth under his shirt. He was scalding hot like burning irons.

She said nothing, just let him wrap her snow-filled fiery locks around their necks like a shawl, smiling against his winter coat, not minding the handfuls of snow Sirius was dumping on their heads. Winter could be warmer than summer, sometimes.


	2. Pact

It was more of an unspoken agreement between the three of them, more of an unconscious pact – not like when Ron said: "If you tell me how many meanings Saturnus hanging low has, I'll tell you how to see the Snitch when Harry's flying." Not like when Harry was flying, and she didn't see the Snitch because all she could see was him, all flow and smooth on his broom, and he caught her eye and she said: "If you win, I'll save you a butterbeer." Not like when Ron was draining his goblet, warm fingers curled around a table cloth corner, eyes reaching down madam Rosmerta's dress and Harry said smiling: "If you fall asleep like this, I won't put you to bed." It was never like that, it just _was_; she in the middle, Harry a cold tangle of arms and legs on her right, barely breathing, Ron warm and throwing his arms out in his dreams on her left. Sometimes they had no room, no dingy hotel with a lumpy bed and they slept on the rocks, Harry's hand inching up Hermione's sleeve as he slept, Ron talking nonsense about spiders and rats into her ear. In the mornings she wasn't sure if her sleep had been a dream, or if she had dreamed she was awake, or if she really had been. In the mornings one side of her was bruised, lying on her side on the rough English soil, and the other half was warm with Ron's breath. Ron hugged her in his sleep, she hugged Harry and Harry hugged himself. They were like on of those Russian _matroesjka's_ and with every layer that fell away, she felt weakened. Ron never fell away, though. Neither did Harry – not in those nights, at least. His days were what took him away. Voldemort eluded them and sometimes in those crazy hours before dawn Hermione wasn't sure if she'd dreamed the existence of the sun and she wondered whether Voldemort was their sleep or simply in it. When the light returned, her half-dreams pulled away but their feeling remained. They always slept like that – unspoken, unsaid, not like when they said to each other: "If you love me, I'll do the same." When they found a room in a motel where no one knew their names, they took one bed. If there was more than one, they pretended not to know. Harry's hand on her elbow, Ron's forehead between her shoulder blades and when someone fell out of bed, they moved and placed the mattress on the floor. They didn't expect to live. Somehow she was afraid they might, just before sunrise when the horizon is a pale green, and she cursed herself for not wanting life, but she was so afraid that when panic fell away, they'd discover it was all they'd had all along.

One night Harry said: "If you sleep now, I might do the same." Ron shifted behind her, hand coming to rest on her hip and Harry's – they always _were_ attached at the hip – and she said: "We need to stop making pacts." But she knew it was the only way they could live, like this, folded in on themselves, a knot of limbs and skin. Harry kissed her then, once, softly, slowly. Ron trailed his fingers down Harry's side, sighed a warm stream of air over Hermione's cheek. "I was born a pact," Harry said, "I don't know any other way." A three-way kiss then, sort of, even though she didn't know how Ron was able to get there but she was oh so glad he did, and her mouth was full of Ron's hair and Harry's stubble.

"If we live," she told them, breathing heavily, "promise me we'll remember different things than this." They touched, all three of them, and she knew it was all she'd ever remember.


	3. Gathering

It never failed to amaze, a table lined with red red _red _hair like the one before him. Harry felt scorched, parched, as if he had been turning in the oven for too long. Weasleys, so many of them, before him, colourful and exhilarating. He wondered why he felt so distinctly like a student in front of an exam committee.

"So, Harry," George said – and yes, this _was_ George, even though Harry wasn't sure why he knew, perhaps it was the slightly different tilt of his head when he wasn't trying to be like his twin, "I suppose you know why we're all here together."

Outside there was Hermione shouting at Ginny to catch the apples before they hit the ground, and Ginny laughing and yelling Hermione looked like an overgrown apple herself up there and Harry thought he might have an inkling why they were there.

"It has come to our attention," Charlie said, mouth twitching, "that you've been getting to know our little sister quite well lately."

Harry's mouth was dry and Hermione was ordering Ginny to put the ladder back, _now_, and he would've laughed if Fred hadn't looked so serious. Harry saw that when he looked serious he looked less like George.

"Now, we don't wish to know what goes on behind closed doors," and Charlie had never looked so strong and menacing before, "but we want you to know that nothing _needs _to be going on."

Bill just grimaced while Percy looked sour and clucked his tongue impatiently. "What they're trying to say is: if you hurt her, they'll hurt you."

Ron looked slightly sheepish, leaning over the table to clap Harry on his back in an awkward angle and Harry thought that when the Weasleys smiled, they all looked alike.

He felt warm, not like being in an oven, but more like being at home, being welcomed.


	4. Death

Someone had once said: life is most beautiful the moment before death.

He wasn't so sure now, felt distinctly like his flesh was trying to leap away from its encasement, his muscles just barely holding onto their bony frames. A _sinking_ feeling, mostly, only it was a sinking that never stopped, his skin literally crawling down, down, down as if to disappear into the ground. Peculiar, that. It didn't hurt, or maybe it did and he just didn't know – he had had such pain in the last hours that it didn't seem entirely unreasonable to him that his sinews would have forgotten what it was like without it. It didn't really seem to matter, either way – his eyes were pushing inward, his skin slipping away, his tendons and tissues melting and there was a faint burning, now, inside of his mouth. Maybe his tongue was missing, or maybe that wasn't possible because could you scream without a tongue? Maybe he wasn't screaming. He could see Hermione now, blackened with smoke and death and Ron like a torch in the night on the battlefield, red red red. He could imagine them kneeling here, finding him, and he hoped they might have a way to know it was him. For a moment he briefly wondered how he could still be _hoping_ this, when all of his body was pulling downward, getting away, his wrist his shoulders his hips his ankles flattened against the rock, being peeled; wasn't he supposed to be dead yet, just now here where everything was smoky and dark and pain was dimly finding his brain, now, dull and throbbing and far-away. He would have closed his eyes but found he didn't have any anymore. Maybe this was it then, dying, not responding but thinking knowing feeling all the same. Maybe it was the curse biting its way in, loosening every loop of flesh around his bones, unravelling him harshly harshly and his lungs felt like punctured balloons against his ribcage fighting to break the skin and leap away.

Something was happening now though, like finally his brain was catching on and trickling downward – there was Ginny, flowers in her hair, and skirt transparent with water from the pond and Ron was pushing Hermione in, teeth white against freckled skin. Mrs. Weasley baking him cookies for his birthday, sharing one with Ginny, giving one to Ron, pretending not knowing he'd already taken one. Reading to Hermione when she was sick, touching her face because it eased the fever, the dreams, hoping she'd soon wake up. His mother, soothing his defeated body with long warm fingers on his forehead, his father, lending him a hand. Pulling him up.

Upward.


	5. Stories

In the mornings, when my books are alive. I swim up through seas of linen, from the deep slow bottom of my dreams to the light of early Saturday morning in the dorms. Breaking the surface, my books whisper, falling open under invisible fingers to my favourite spots. Crookshanks is next to my face, an overwhelming splash of red that fills my eyes, and he snores like old cats do: content, warm, spread out like only they can and still be comfortable. I've fallen asleep on my Friday book again, its pages warm and dry under my cheek. It rustles its good morning, and now my head is filled with soft colours and words that drift like clouds.

Ron would laugh if he knew what I read on Friday nights in bed, curled up in my nest of warmth.

He'd laugh, and then maybe he'd flush, reading the title again. Prying the book from my reading fingers, closing it, memorising the page I was on. (I taught him that, I suppose, yelling from the top of the stairs that you just _can't_ close a book like that, not without marking it, because it _ruined_ everything, and how was I ever supposed to know where to start without any support? His face was red and he screamed I was uptight and neurotic and other things that spilled from his flushed mouth, but since then he always memorises the page.) Memorising the page I was on, and then following the line of my jaw with one finger, saying how mental I am for reading mushy stuff like that. Kissing me, then, mouth flushed like when he's yelling at me, and somehow I don't mind that his teeth sometimes catch on my lips and he's not always sure what to do with his tongue. I guess I'm not always sure, either. Pulling back, his entire face is flushed, and he says how mental he must be, recognising all that mushy stuff when he's around me.

That's the point where Harry laughs, proclaims us worthy of each other in being mental, and pointedly takes Ron's Queen from the board, announcing check mate.

In the mornings when my books are alive, I realise some stories are worth telling more than others, and down the stairs waiting is the most beautiful one of all.


	6. Chess

Fred and George came blasting through the door, wearing identical grins. "Mum wants you to come down and say hello to grandad Septimus," one of the two said. (Ron wasn't sure which – today they were wearing their identical purple sweaters, like they always did when relatives were visiting, so they could confuse everyone into awkward silences. Ron hated it.)

"I'm coming," he grumbled, hastily hiding the Quidditch book he stole from Charlie under his pillow. The twins ran off again, probably to go and tell grandpa about how they'd been at Hogwarts. Ron scowled a bit, and reminded himself it was only two more years until he'd be there.

Downstairs, grandad was sitting stiffly at the table, awkwardly holding a bouncing Ginny on his lap. Mum was bustling about, making tea, but he didn't appear to really want any. Percy was showing him his new pair of glasses, which he'd gotten after Bill had accidentally sat on the previous pair.

"Hullo grandad," Ron said, stopping next to the old man. Septimus looked at him.

"Why, Ronald! Happy birthday. You've grown. Again. How're you doing, son?"

"Thanks grandad, I'm great," Ron said, smiling at him. He liked his grandfather; the old man didn't stop by often, but when he did, he told stories about his young years when brooms were still custom made by hand, and you had to make to Golden Snitch yourself if you fancied being a Seeker. Sometimes he even brought Ron something – a Nimbus miniature, once, and one time a signed picture of the Spanish national team. When Ron had asked him how he'd gotten it, Septimus had smiled at him and said Barcelona was _particularly_ nice in springtime.

"Tell me, Ronald, have you already gotten a lot of wonderful presents today?"

"He got a new blanket," Ginny piped up from on Septimus' lap, who patted her on the head.

"A blanket, really? Well, that's wonderful. I've also got something for you, Ronald. I hope you like it. I found it when me and Mrs. Skamander from next door were cleaning out the attic. It's a fine piece of work, even if I do say so myself…" He helped Ginny off his lap and stiffly bended over into a leather bag. Out of it he got a square packet, wrapped in brown paper.

"Open it, son," Septimus said and his eyes were sparkling.

Ron did, of course, not bothering to keep the bows intact. When he saw what was inside, he gasped. "A chess set! Wow! Thanks grandad!"

Septimus smiled. "I thought you might like it. Just practice a lot, maybe it'll come in handy later."

Ron made his acquaintance with all of the pieces, then peered at his grandad, happiness written all over his face. This was the best gift ever.


	7. Magic

Sometimes he thinks it should all be a little bit weirder.

Weirder than _this _anyway, weirder than hats and dresses and silly sticks, weirder than books that he could find in the last, slightly dodgy section of the town's library if he wanted to. Not that he wants to. He's just proving a point, really. Once he snuck into Harry's bedroom, because he wanted to see if Harry sometimes changed the positions of his broken toys. If he had, it might mean he liked it and maybe then he could take it back. Or break it. Or something. Afterwards he couldn't really remember anymore why he'd went in that room while Harry was downstairs doing the dishes.

The sight of that trunk opened like a beckoning mouth is imprinted on his eyelids, though. He could see the gleam of new books with glossy covers and wrinkled old yellowish paper. Something he thought then: _maybe they're love letters _and over his spine ran a shiver of pleasure when he envisioned Harry's face as he read them out loud at the dinner table. It didn't occur to him then that maybe _that was magic_, how that trunk called him over from the shelves of dusty toys which should have been so much more interesting. It doesn't occur to him now, oh no it doesn't, especially not at night when his blanket is wet with sweat and summer warmth.

It was all terribly boring, though. The titles were sort of freakish (_Advanced Transfiguration_, _So You Want to Be a Seeker?_, _1002 Herbs Unsuitable For Human Consumption _and a battered old rag called _Darke Magic_) but they were just books – just books, not things that could jump up and latch at his throat or burrow themselves into his brain. He thought it should be weirder than this; it seemed stupid that a sort of world where waving around a stick could turn things into mice or ice would have books, as mundane as they are.

The yellow paper was full of things he didn't understand and some he did, but they weren't love letters. There was a message from someone who called himself 'Red' who seemed to be going on about some kind of cup, and there was a sort of recipe (but not one he fancied eating), and then there was one scrap of paper that was full of lines – angry streaks of ink, some so harshly put they'd pierced the paper. Whatever.

He opened up _Saves For Eternity_ and had a shock running up his nerves as he realised the pictures inside it were moving – streaks of colour on smooth lines of wood, chasing after things that were too fast to see. And suddenly his mind went numb and he remembered the recurring dream that always sent his head spinning: everything fast and moving around him as he slid through the air, in control, looking for something, looking for something… He slammed the book shut and it didn't occur to him then that maybe _that was magic_ and it never occurred to him later.

A picture fell out of the book and propelled down to the floor in a graceful arc. Up at him stared two faces full of deep happiness – a girl with hair that seemed to have exploded and a boy red like a dancing flame, towering tall over her. They were grinning brightly and as he watched, they reached out of the frame of the photo and pulled a third person in – with a shock he realised it was his cousin, but not like he'd ever seen him, smiling, smiling… They waved at the camera and embraced in a wonky three-way hug before the images started all over again. He couldn't look away, couldn't stop his head from saying: _this is weird enough for me, but it's also not weird enough._ It occurred to him then and it occurs to him now; _maybe that was magic._


	8. Sky

"Isn't it sad how they'll never reach one another?" Ted's breath on her frozen ear is so warm it hurts her.

"I don't know," Andromeda says, like a sigh, "They're forever together, isn't that something?"

"Being next to each other isn't being together."

"_We're_ next to each other."

His fingers inch up her arm and even through her thick winter's robe she feels their warmth.

"But we connect." He states it like it's a simple truth and maybe it is. Andromeda shivers.

"Who knows how many stars they have in common? Who knows how deeply they're entwined?" She smiles upward. It's a change to the story she's always invented herself. "And anyway, wouldn't it be a bit inappropriate if they were _together_ when her mother is right… _there_?" She lifts her arm from where it was resting on her chest en traces the twinkling **W** that is Cassiopeia in the winter's night.

"Right," Ted says, and he, too, lifts his arm and leans it against hers, "and it's not like _she's_ going anywhere anytime soon. Wasn't she the one who thought she was prettier than… someone?"

"Yes, she fancied herself just as beautiful as the Nereids. Poseidon didn't like that very much. Oh, and her husband's right there, too. Poor man, he never really had anything to do with it." Cepheus' constellation is shaped somewhat like a house, hovering short above the horizon, which Andromeda thinks makes sense.

"What a nice family reunion." Ted pulls her closer. "So they're in fact just playing house for all of eternity, pretending to be prudish en virginal because her parents are right there? Poor chap, that Perseus."

Andromeda giggles. "Well, they _did_ get to be together when they were alive, and now they live on forever up there."

"Their privacy displayed for all of the world! I'd hate it."

"It wouldn't happen to you," Andromeda says smilingly, "you're not near as heroic as Perseus was."

Ted snorts. "I _would_ save you from a blood-thirsty sea monster the gods sent to rip you apart, thank you very much."

"What, like the Giant Squid?"

He punches her lightly in the side. "Shut up."

"Ow. You know, my mum would never let you save me."

They're silent for a while, fitting remarkably well together in spite of their thick layers of cloth, the frozen ground hard against their backs.

"I would anyway," Ted says then, and she feels his smile in the dark.

"That's assuming I need saving, oh hero," she says, but somehow she knows that she _does_, from _him_, just like he needs it from her in his own way, and she kisses him then, under the stars.

Andromeda and Perseus twinkle down on them from the skies, forever together, forever apart.


End file.
